Future Son Part 2
by Smudgie
Summary: Beware: this is darker than Part One CHAPTER 3 UP
1. Chapter 1

Well, this is obviously the sequel to Future Son. The reason why it's posted as a separate story is that it's a lot darker and more angsty than Part One. A few people expressed interest in seeing a sequel, but this derivates from the more light-hearted tone in the first part, so maybe you won't want to read this. More chapters will probably follow this one.

'Good morning, everyone!' said George McFly, coming through the door.

'Hi, Dad,' said Dave and Linda in unison from the breakfast table.

Marty stared.

He couldn't believe it. This, on top of everything else? His father was no longer the greasy-haired loser that he'd once been – he was happier looking, he was confident – shock overcame him and he fell from his stool to the kitchen tiles with a thump.

'Marty! Are you all right? Did you hit your head?' said his father in concern, starting forwards.

'No, I – I'm fine – you – you look great, Dad!' gasped Marty, struggling to his feet.

George favoured him with a slightly puzzled frown. 'Well, thanks, Marty. Are you only up now? You look a mess…don't tell me, you slept in your clothes again.' He grinned knowingly at his son.

'Course he did,' Linda commented, before Marty had a chance to answer. 'You're such a slob, Marty.'

'Now, Linda,' her father chided, but he stooped to kiss her head affectionately as he took a cup of tea from the table.

Marty looked with wide eyes at this unfamiliar, loving family. How the hell had this happened? Then he realised.

Oh God…he must have changed things! There was no other explanation. Somehow, he had messed with history enough to change his family's future!

'Wow,' he muttered. 'Heavy.' Then, aloud, he said, 'Hey, where's Mom?'

The reaction from his family was immediate: Dave cursed and Linda dropped a cup. George, however, very slowly lowered the newspaper from where he was sitting in the armchair, and said, calmly, 'Mom? Why do you ask?'

A very cold feeling began to creep over Marty. Trying to speak normally, though his heart was pounding, he said, 'Well – where is she? Shouldn't she be here?'

George looked at him sympathetically, and with more than a little sadness. 'Please, Marty. Don't. Your mother doesn't want to see you. I've made that quite clear to you, many times, so please don't bring the subject up again.'

'Doesn't want to see me?' said Marty, horrified. 'Why?'

'She never says,' said Dave quietly. 'You know that, Marty.'

'But you guys have seen her?'

His brother frowned at him, puzzled. 'Well, yeah. Every once in a while. You _know _that.' He stared at Marty worriedly for a moment. 'Why are you bringing this up now? You've always hated Mom because she never wanted to see you.'

'Since when?' gasped Marty.

'Since she left.' Dave was now looking at Marty very oddly. 'She could never stand the sight of you – I saw her looking at you sometimes in this way – '

'Dave.' George's voice was unusually sharp. 'That's enough.'

Dave fell silent and stared hard at the ground, blinking hard. He looked so different in his business suit…

'I know it's hard for you, Marty,' said George, getting up and coming over to slip an arm around his youngest son's shoulders. Marty could only stand there, numb with shock. 'It's been hard for all of us…even though it was years ago, I still – '

His voice cracked and Marty saw tears glistening in his eyes. He quickly glanced away.

'We loved each other,' his father whispered, staring into some far off place.

Something was wedged tightly into Marty's throat. 'Right,' he muttered, stepping away from George and heading towards the door before anyone could stop him. 'I'll see you later.'

_How had this happened? How the hell had he caused this to happen?_

Doc. He had to find Doc.

Marty hesitated.

But first of all…he had to see his mother.


	2. Chapter 2

Marty hurried out of his house, still dazed and in a state of shock. How could this have happened? What could he have done to make his life this way?

He stood on the pathway in front of the house, breathing heavily, his thoughts swirling. Doc. Right. Doc would know where his mother was. Doc would tell him what to do.

Even as he started to stride determinedly away from the house, he caught sight of a familiar figure walking up the street towards him. Jennifer! He quickly ducked down behind the dustbins, silently thanking God that his girlfriend was something that was still consistent in this reality. But he couldn't face her – not yet. Not like this.

Jennifer walked by without seeing him, and Marty breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been hard to explain why he was hiding behind a trash can from his girlfriend. He shifted to the side as she approached the front door. It opened several moments after she knocked on it.

'Oh, hi, Jennifer,' he heard Linda say. 'No, Marty's not here – he left just a minute ago. Didn't you see him?'

The words became indistinct as Jennifer disappeared inside the house and the door shut. Several minutes later she reappeared. She was frowning, looking confused. After she had walked away down the street, Marty scrambled out from his hiding place, feeling more than a little guilty. But it couldn't be helped.

He was just wondering whether he should go inside to fetch his skateboard and risk the enquiries from his family – what was left of it, anyway – about why Jennifer hadn't seen him outside, or to hoof it all the way to Doc's, when he heard three sonic booms rip through the tranquillity of the neighbourhood and the DeLorean appeared, ploughing straight into the trash cans that he had been hiding behind just moments before.

The gullwing door swung up and Doc clambered out.

'Doc?' said Marty in astonishment. The scientist was wearing the weirdest clothes he'd ever seen. 'What the hell are you wearing?'

'Marty!' gasped Doc, rushing forward to grab his shoulders. 'You've got to come back with me?'

'Where?' said Marty, utterly bewildered.

'Back to the future!'

'Back – whoa, wait Doc. I'm not going anywhere just now.'

'But your kids, Marty. Something has to be done about your kids!'

'My _kids_?' Marty pressed a hand to his forehead and paced down the driveway and back up again. 'I have kids? Jesus, Doc, can this wait?'

Doc seemed to calm down a bit. 'Well, I suppose. What's wrong?'

'My mom, Doc. Where is she? I gotta see her.'

'Your mother?' Doc looked at him strangely. 'You last told me she was living in Grass Valley.'

'Grass Valley. Right. I'm going there, now.'

'Marty! You hate your mother – ' Doc stopped. 'Oh. I see. You're just back from the past – you must have related to your mother as a teenager, and now you seek to reconcile with her – '

'No, Doc! Nothing like that! Only when I left my parents were together, and now that I'm back I find out she hates my guts!'

Doc's eyes boggled. 'You mean you sufficiently changed events in 1955 to create an _alternate reality_?'

'Er – if you mean where my dad and Dave and Linda and the house all look completely different and my mom hasn't seen me in years, then yeah!'

'Great SCOTT!' If Doc's eyes widened even more they were going to fall out of his head and roll away down the driveway. 'You mean before you went back to 1955 your mother and father were still together?'

'That's what I said, Doc!' Marty's patience was beginning to wear thin. 'Look, I gotta get to Grass Valley. I have to see Mom.'

'Ask her what went wrong,' said Doc urgently. 'Find out the reason why she left your father! Then we can go back to 1955 and repair the damage.'

'Go back.' Marty groaned. '_Fine. _But can you drive me over to Grass Valley?'

Doc blinked. 'Well, of course. But why don't you take the truck?'

Marty looked at him. 'Truck?'

00000000000000000000000000000

'Lorraine?'

I glanced up from my book. John was poking his head round the door into the kitchen. 'I'm off to work. See you around dinnertime?'

I smiled at him. 'That'll be fine. I don't really feel like cooking tonight – will pizza be all right?'

John grinned back at me. 'Sounds great. I'll see you then.' A quick peck on the lips and he was gone. Several minutes later, I heard his car pulling out of the driveway. John always needed an early start, as he worked in Hill Valley and we lived in Grass Valley, twelve miles away. Of course, it would have made a lot more sense to live in Hill Valley, but I had requested that we live some way away. John hadn't really understood – still didn't – but he loved me, and respected my wishes. So here we were in Grass Valley, where every street didn't evoke a painful memory and where there wasn't as much chance of bumping into George, or worse…Marty.

Marty. The corners of my mouth twitched slightly upward in a sad smile. It had been so long since I'd seen him…did he still remember me? Did he hate me? I never brought up the subject with Dave and Linda, and they never mentioned him. The lack of his name in the conversation provoked tension between us, and I came away from each meeting filled with a terrible sorrow, knowing that things would never be the same again between my children and me.

I'd known, when I'd first laid eyes on my second son, that he was Marty. I hadn't thought so with Dave. I'd known he wasn't the one.

'What'll we call him, then?' said George, gazing down at the bundle in my arms with bright and happy eyes. 'He was always going to be called Marty, wasn't he? After Marty Klein.'

No, I thought, looking into my new baby's eyes. This isn't Marty.

'No,' I said aloud. 'We won't call this one Marty.'

George raised his eyebrows slightly at _this one_, but didn't comment. Instead, he said, 'Calvin, then?'

Neither of us liked the name Calvin much. We settled on David.

We were a happy family, and our happiness increased when Linda was born; obviously, there was no mention of her being named Marty. And then my third child came along, and looking into his bright blue baby eyes, I knew.

I wished I didn't know. I wished I didn't know anything. Though as each of Marty's birthdays passed by he bore more and more resemblance to the boy I'd first met in the 1950s, I still clung to the resolution that it was impossible, time travel was impossible – I'd just been delusional that night, believing every word that bastard said. I'd had a feeling, like I knew him, yes, but that was probably only the drink talking – even though I'd only had a sip…

I started to feel like I was going mad. Was it true? Could it possibly be true? Looking at my youngest child, I realised that I'd met him before he was even born, but he hadn't yet met me…thoughts like these were starting to drive me crazy. I began to grow restless, preoccupied. George was concerned but I brushed his worries away. Well, what was I supposed to do, tell him the truth?

Then the guilt started.

One day, as I hugged Marty, ruffled his soft brown hair, kissed the tip of his little snub nose, and as he grinned up at me with that cheeky smile, the guilt slammed into me all at once. I had _kissed _him back in 1955. I had tried to make out with my own son. I was no better than some sort of a child pervert.

'Stay away from me!' I cried suddenly, pushing him away so that he staggered backwards. He stumbled and tripped, falling to the ground.

'Lorraine!' George, who had been reading the paper in the corner, was there in an instant, scooping up Marty. My five-year-old son's expression was one of shock and hurt; his lips were only just beginning to tremble and his eyes to fill up. George was staring at me over the top of Marty's head. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

George rarely swore, but he sounded more shocked than angry. Tears came to my own eyes. 'I'm sorry,' I whispered, and fled the room just as Marty began to howl.

That was the turning point. I no longer felt comfortable with any sort of contact with Marty. I would hug and kiss Dave and Linda, but when Marty came over I would be cold and unresponsive. It grew worse, until finally I was shoving him away from me. I wouldn't speak to him or make eye contact with him; but sometimes I watched him while he was unawares. I wondered and wondered until I wanted to cry: did my son really bear resemblance to Marty Klein, _was he _Marty Klein, or was my mind just convincing me that he looked like him? And I _did _cry, many times, wondering was I going mad.

George was no fool – he could see something was bothering me, to say the least. 'Lorraine, do you think maybe you should see someone?' he suggested tentatively one night when the children had gone to bed.

He'd meant it kindly, of course, but I flared up immediately. 'What do you mean? See someone? I'm fine, George! Don't be ridiculous! I've never been better! What makes you _think _something's wrong? I'm fine! Everything's fine!'

'Mom?'

Marty, seven years old now, was standing in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. My shouting must have woken him up.

'Marty, go back to bed,' said George sharply.

Marty was not about to be deterred so easily. 'Mom's cryin',' he insisted, and came over to wrap his arms comfortingly around my waist.

I gasped – memories flashing back – the smell of the leather interior of the car, the smell of him – soap – and his wide blue eyes…

_'Have you ever been in a…situation…where you knew you had to do something, but when you came to it…you didn't think you could go through with it?'_

'_Oh, yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean.'_

'_You – you do?'_

'_Yeah. And do you know what I do in those situations?'_

_Marty looked nervous. I smiled mischievously._

'_I don't think.'_

_The scent of his flesh, the texture of his skin against my cheek, my lips sliding over his…_

I snapped back to the present and saw the same blue eyes that I had stared into twenty years ago looking up at me now. My child smelt of milk and innocence, his little warm body pressed close to mine.

'Don't _touch _me!' I screamed, shoving him away from me and slapping him across the face. He cried out in pain, one hand flying to his scarlet cheek.

George got up from his chair at the table so fast he sent it crashing to the ground. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. He was truly, truly furious this time. 'Don't you dare hit our child,' he roared at me. 'Don't you dare, Lorraine!'

'Stop it, George,' I pleaded, struggling in his grip.

He let go of me, but continued to shout. 'I don't know why you act this way towards Marty, but it's got to stop! And now you've started hitting him – I won't stand for it, Lorraine. If you ever lay a finger on him again – '

He broke off and turned away, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes. His back to me, he bent down and hefted Marty into his arms. My son peered at me over his father's shoulder, one side of his face bright red, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

It was over then. I knew it, George knew it, but neither of us could bear to acknowledge it. We became cold and distant with each other after that, barely speaking. George now began to cuddle Marty more and spend more time with him – trying to make up the love that I had never given him. Marty became his special child, whereas I gave all my attention to Dave and Linda, the two family members that still loved me. The rifts within our household deepened.

One day, when Marty was eight years old, he set fire to the living room rug. After I had finished watching George and Dave yelling and struggling with the fire extinguisher, Linda screaming and throwing her possessions of her bedroom window, George shouting and Marty sobbing afterwards, I retreated to my room and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling empty and drained of feeling.

'Oh…if one of your kids ever accidentally, when he's eight years old, sets fire to the living room rug – go easy on him, OK?'

The words had been accompanied with a special wink towards me. Now I knew it was true. Marty _had_ travelled back to 1955. I _had_ tried to make out with my _own son_. I _was_ some sort of child _pervert_.

Some time after that, I left. George and I divorced. Two years later I met John, a good, kind man. We married, and moved into a nice house in Grass Valley. I occasionally saw Dave and Linda, although admittedly less and less; and I made it clear to George from the start that I never wanted to see Marty again. I didn't see George again, either. There was too much hurt between us, too much misunderstanding, and the knowledge of what both of us had had, and what we could have had, but what never came to pass.

I was content now, and I loved John, although the deep, aching sense of loss of George and my family was ever present. I wondered where Marty was now. I wondered if he had gone back in time yet. If he had, he probably hated me even more now for what I'd tried to do to him. Although I hadn't understood then, of course…

A sudden loud banging on the door startled me from my dwellings on the past. Frowning, I glanced out the window. A black truck was parked askew in the driveway. Who could that be?

The banging at the door grew more persistent. 'I'm coming!' I called impatiently, standing up. Dabbing at my eyes to remove any trace of tears, I hurried down the hall, reached out towards the handle, and opened the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The minute our eyes met, I was seventeen again, my heart racing and my hands trembling. My eyes drifted shut and I was standing in front of my locker, the sounds of the school drifting and floating away as Calvin Klein sucked my entire universe right towards him.

'Mom,' said Marty, and my eyes snapped open again. He was staring at me intently. I was staring right back at him, drinking in every little detail of his face. Over the last thirty years his face as it was then had gradually faded from my mind; when I left my family I wondered what my son looked like now, and racked my brains trying to dredge up his face from 1955. I had been unsuccessful, but now, now I felt like a teenager again with a breathless crush.

After several seconds had passed by Marty stepped forward. 'Mom,' he said again, only now his voice was hard and angry. 'What the hell d'you think you're doing?'

'Oh, Marty…' I whispered, reaching out to steady myself against the doorframe. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes.

'How could you leave Dad?' Marty cried, flinging his arms out on either side of him. 'Are you insane? I went to all that trouble to get you guys back together – and you go blow it. And it makes even less sense now than it would have before, because Dad's not a loser anymore and the house is nice – and you, Mom! You look great! I just don't get it – ' He broke off and looked away, clenching his fists by his sides.

I was barely taking in his words; I could only stare at him. Marty's image was blurring and wavering before me as tears started to spill down my cheeks. 'Look at you, Marty,' I choked out. 'You're all grown up.'

'Jesus,' he muttered. 'When was the last time you saw me?'

I shrugged, hurriedly wiping my eyes with a handkerchief. 'You were about eight. You know as well as I do.'

'No, I don't,' he said impatiently. 'It's just – look, can I come in? This is gonna take a lot of explaining.'

'Of course,' I said hurriedly and held the door open for him, marvelling as he went by how much he had changed.

He followed me down the hall into the kitchen. Glancing back at him, I could see him looking suspiciously at the photographs on the walls. 'Who the hell is he?' he demanded, pointing at a picture of John and me that stood on a small table in the kitchen.

'That's John.'

'Who?'

'_John_, Marty. You know, my husband.'

'You have a husband?' he shouted. 'What about Dad?'

'Once you've divorced someone, you're not obliged to live like a hermit!' I said indignantly, but a feeling of dread was beginning to creep over me. How could Marty not know about John? Did George, Dave and Linda never say anything about me to Marty? Did they act like I didn't exist?

Marty stood in front of me, glaring, his hands in his pockets. I was astonished again by how he had evolved from a small, cheeky child into a moody, sarky teenager – even though I had seen this side of his before he was even born. Thoughts like these had tormented me while he was growing up – and still did.

'This is like some sort of nightmare, Mom,' he groaned. 'I come back and you guys are divorced and you're married and you hate me – why, Mom? Why d'you hate me? Is it because of what I said to you in 1955?'

It took a moment for the words to sink in; when they did, I literally staggered backwards from their full force. '1955!' I gasped. 'You mean you've gone back? You met me back there?'

'Yeah.' Marty eyed me cautiously. 'And I told you I was your future son. I prob'ly shouldn't have said that…'

'You travelled in time,' I whispered. 'I can't believe it.'

'Yeah, but you know that!' Marty was shouting again. He looked exhausted – his face was pale and dark circles ringed his eyes. 'Jesus, Mom. I told you that thirty years ago. It's gotta have sunk in by now.'

'Thirty years,' I said dazedly. 'It's been thirty years since you saw me? You're only seventeen.' I was barely aware of what I was saying. Was I drunk? Perhaps Marty was a hallucination.

'_No._ Sheesh. Mom, it's been thirty years for _you. _But I saw you yesterday, in 1955.'

I blinked and sat down in a kitchen chair. 'That's not possible…'

'Jesus Christ, didn't you ever think about all this stuff, when I told you I was your son from the future?'

'Don't use that sort of language with me,' I said automatically, slipping into the mom-thing again as naturally and easily as breathing. Then I realised what I'd said and clapped my hand over my mouth with a half-sob, half-giggle. 'Oh, my…oh, Marty, you have no idea how strange it feels, saying that. Like you're my son again.'

'But I am your son, Mom,' said Marty tiredly. 'And where I'm from, you've been my mom my whole life – not just part of it.'

I looked at him. 'What?'

He shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. OK, Mom, I need to know where you and Dad went wrong.'

I looked at him blankly.

'Why did you leave Dad? I know it's gotta be because of me, something I did – I mean, it wasn't perfect before, but at least you were still together.'

'We didn't exactly go wrong,' I whispered. 'We loved each other. We were happy. I guess it was you, Marty – George couldn't bear to see the way I treated you. Something came between us, and we knew it was over.' I bit my lip hard, trying to force back the tears that were threatening to spill over. I'd shed enough tears over the years.

Marty was staring at me with an expression akin to shock. 'You split over me?' he said hoarsely. 'Why – how did you treat me?'

'Well, don't you remember when I hit you?'

He closed his eyes. 'No, I don't remember,' he said. His voice was flat and expressionless. 'And I don't really want to know. I just need to know why you treated me like that.'

All of a sudden, the tears were pouring down my cheeks and my face was buried in my hands. 'I'm sorry, Marty,' I whispered, my cheeks wet. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But I loved you so very much, and I couldn't bear to think of what I'd done to you in 1955 – '

'_What_?' Marty forcefully pulled my hands away from my face. 'What are you talking about? What did you do to me, Mom?'

'Kissed you,' I sniffed miserably.

Unexpectedly, Marty laughed, a short, bitter laugh. 'That's all?'

'What do you mean, that's all?' I was on my feet in an instant, angry all of sudden. I was so furious I was almost shaking. 'Don't you know what it did to me? Don't you know how I've felt over the last thirty years, what I've gone through? I kissed you, Marty. I tried to make out with you. And all I could think of, every time I looked at you, was that I was going to hurt you so badly, maybe traumatise you for life, one day soon. I couldn't live with seeing you so loving towards me. I couldn't stand it.' My voice had grown quieter and quieter as I spoke, and now I sank back into the chair, my knees too weak to support me anymore.

Marty was silent for what seemed a long, long time, then spoke very softly. 'You know what, Mom? I think you were the one who was screwed up by that, not me.'

My face whipped upwards to his. For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

He was nodding. 'Yeah, that's what happened.'

'But…it can't – you…' I suddenly realised something that I'd been slow to catch on to. 'Oh my God! You've been back – so I've kissed you. And yet…you don't care. _You don't care_.'

'Mom.' Marty sounded unbelievably weary. 'Look at me. Do I look traumatised for life to you? I gotta admit, it was weird when you had the hots for me in 1955, but I know it wasn't your fault. You didn't _know. _So stop acting like _you_ caused all this to happen. _I_ was the one who caused this. If I hadn't ever told you I was your future son, you would have never – '

He halted abruptly and his eyes grew wide.

'That's it!' he said. 'If I never told you who I was, you would never have felt so guilty and split up with Dad. Jesus, I knew I shouldn't've said anything. I guess it _was_ a bit heavy. Jesus, how the hell am I going to stop myself saying that? Drag me out of the car? God.'

I could sort of see what he was talking about, although I felt dizzy if I thought about it too much. 'The man I met that week, Doctor Brown – will he help you?'

'Shoot me, more like,' Marty muttered. Then, in normal tones, 'Yeah, he'll help me. I have to go now, Mom.'

'No,' I said, catching hold of his sleeve. 'Not yet. Stay a while.'

He pulled away, biting his lip. 'Sorry, Mom. But don't worry, I'll set everything right. I mean – ' he glared, ' – you can't mean to say you're happy with this John guy?'

I swallowed. 'He's a good man,' I said softly. 'He's kind to me. But I'm not happy, no.'

Marty smiled grimly. 'Well, you won't have to worry about that for much longer,' he said. 'Hopefully. See ya, Mom.' He started forward as if to hug me, but then paused, and the moment was lost. We looked at each other for a moment longer; then he turned away and walked out of the kitchen. I heard the front door slam, the truck outside starting up, driving away, the sound becoming fainter and fainter until everything was completely silent again and I wondered if my son's coming had been a dream.


End file.
